Trust that I am safe.  I hope to be home in time to spend Spring Break with you (San Diego?).  It means so much to me that you took the time to write.  I know you are very busy and very engaged in the moment.  I’m glad you are so focused on school activities - plays, academics, cheerleading, friends.  The more you get involved, the more rewarding life is - you will especially see this when you enter high school next year.

Jessie, I am so proud of you and everything you do!  You are such a Superstar!  You are now at the age that is usually the toughest for most people - your body is developing, you’re subjected to peer pressure, you want to be liked by everyone, you’re focused on what people think of you and the impression you leave on people - these are common things to deal with as a teen.

Remember to have fun along the way, don’t worry about too many things (they have a way of working out), and know who your real friends are (who can you trust).  The most important thing, I think, is remembering that your words and actions can help others or hurt others.  Think twice before you say something bad about another person - how would you feel if the same were said about you?  I’ve noticed this year that you are much more aware of how your words and actions affect others.  Again, I am proud of you.

You are growing up at a very unique time in our history.  You’ve witnessed the worst terrorist attack in history; our country’s economy is severely distressed; people are losing their houses and savings at record rates; and this will be one of the most historic presidential elections ever - we will either elect a black man president or have the first female vice president!  These may not seem like big issues to you now, but as you grow older you will realize the significance of this era you grew up in. 

That’s not some Maya Angelou $#!T, I made it up, so commit it to memory.  OK, Good luck on your homework, Tigaroo.  I’ve attached a few photos for your pleasure and enjoyment!  Love,  Dad

Apples and Grapes - I wish I could take credit for this one!  Nonetheless, it’s a perfect little ”quick read” for Sunday humor…..this is for all the women out there; you are all treetop quality! 
                                 

Women are like apples on trees.

The best ones are at the top of the tree.

Men don’t want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt.

Instead, they sometimes take the apples from the ground that aren’t as good, but easier to get.

The apples at the top think there is something wrong with them, when in reality, they’re amazing.

They just have to wait for the right man to come along,

the one who is brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

 
Now men…. men are like a fine wine.

They begin as grapes, and it’s up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.
       

Quick break from pigs and what not.  My ex-wife (2nd) and dear friend, Mary Elizabeth, recently indicated that I needed to write more about my family.  I thought I was making headway with the whole pigs and my sister thing, but I think she was referring to writing more about my kids.  And, hey, that’s a lot better than asking for money, so here goes….

The other night, after I told my 7 year old daughter, E.J., that I had seen some camels - you know dromedaries; i.e., large even-toed ungulates - she said that she didn’t know what a camel looked like (no wonder she was confused).  I promised to send some pictures.  And I did…..

Then she said she didn’t know where I was.  I mentioned to her that I didn’t know where I was most of the time either, and that I hadn’t since the sixties.  Ever the inquisitive one, she said, ”Dad, how far are you from Alabama?”  Well, I didn’t have my atomic calculator on me, so I emailed her a map….   

She still didn’t know where I was.  Neither did I, really, I had just gone for the quick, seemingly easy solution.  Nothing is ever quick and easy with a science-minded 7 year old.  So I sent her a bigger map and said I was in Iraq, near the Tigris River. 

But that confused her even more, and she’s a smart kid (Oh, BTW, Elizabeth - her Mom - wanted me to mention that E.J. got advanced a grade last year).  So I said, “Have you heard of the Garden of Eden?”  And she said, “I think so - at church, right?!”  I knew I was onto something then…. and I said, “Yes, well, I’m right near there.”  Then I sent her these pictures and she was content to move on to other things after that……

I still think she’ll turn out fine, though.

Sheez, are you really back for more about The Day The Pigs Ate My Sister?  I guess you want to hear how the F#$% we survived damn near skewering Mrs. Johannsen’s baby?  You remember that part, right?  Good, ’cause I’m still warming up.  You can’t make this shit up. 

It was a Summer day, probably 1971.  Our next door neighbor, Mrs. Johannsen, had disastrously discovered our lost arrow, deep in the ground, piercing the blanket next to her baby.  The police were scouring the neighborhood for 3 missing LaFave boys.  All those other little neighborhood peckerheads were long gone, running their happy asses home, their parents none the wiser.  My mother, of course, was a nervous wreck.  My father had just gotten home……. we were absolutely fucked, and we knew it.  This was way bigger than launching an arrow into the side of Mr. Essie’s car, or any of our other juvenile pranks.

Where’s the happy ending, you say?  Well, believe it or not, we all survived, contrary to my father’s wishes at the time.  In fact, I think he may have even felt a tinge of guilt over the fact that the archery set wasn’t as well hidden as it could have been.  I surmise this now, only because I am a parent who completely understands the level of responsibility that comes with your children’s actions. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself again.  You see, Rick and I were content to remain in hiding - shit, we were in the backyard shed, well concealed by miscellaneous junk, and searching relentlessly for some cover that might keep us warm through the night, if necessary.  And, we had our trusty walkie-talkies.  Our biggest concern was Doug, who had dashed into the house when Mrs. J let loose. 

But that was hours ago.  Now, Doogalay was no fool.  I’m sure he had carefully weighed out his options on the fly; somehow instantaneously calculating the amount of time he had before the proverbial shit actually hit the fan.  Among his choices was the possibility of running away.  This was a course of action he had contemplated on numerous occasions in the past, but never before with such determination as now. 

It was a brilliant move, really.  Dude was ever the middle child, the righter of wrongs, the aspirer of finer living, the last to have any great desire to run when he could simply amble away.  Shit, Rick and I had immediately and aimlessly run about 6 blocks as hard and fast as we could, like scared deer.  Then, when it dawned on us that our escape efforts were futile and held no real chance for any reasonable success, we covertly slithered our way back toward the house, through bushes, down alleys and over fences. 

We actually thought we were inconspicuous in our movements as we ducked into the shed which was buried back in the farthest corner of the now very soggy yard.  We had a plan, a weak one, but one with true vision:  save Doug.  Rickles and I made several attempts at walkie-talkie contact, plotting our hopeless rescue attempt.  That plan abruptly ended when my old man barked back, “You little bastards get your sorry asses back here if you know what’s good for you!”  Well, we didn’t.  Know what was good for us, that is.  Not for a long time. 

My dad must have known we weren’t far away.  But it was way too late for us to seek new shelter.  As screwed as we were, though, we weren’t about to let Doug take the heat alone.  Of course, we weren’t really thinking of surrendering just yet, either.  Actually, we were just brash enough and stupid enough to think that we might miraculously get Doug out of there, somehow, unscathed.  We envisioned that pops had him strapped to a chair, beating him senseless for information on our whereabouts.   

Hell, Doug was even smarter than we realized.  He was already long gone.  He had been looking for just such an opportunity to make his getaway - now he had the perfect excuse!  As I said, he had attempted to run away before - always claiming that THIS couldn’t possibly be his real family - but he never made it past dinner time (that’s how most matters of endurance were measured back then).  In fact, the last time he had made a break for it, he was somewhat disappointed that nobody had noticed his loss as he casually strolled home 1/2 hour late for dinner. 

Apparently, though, this time was different.  And he would have made it, too, if not for that squad car.  He sure as hell saved us, though.  We came out of hiding as soon as we saw the police car pull into the driveway with Doug’s mangled bike hanging from the open trunk.  Our problem was now OBE - that’s military-speak for “Overcome By Events”.  But we were sure that Doug was a goner.  It was a bittersweet moment of triumph.

It turned out that Doug HAD truly plotted his departure fairly early on, probably before Rick and I even hit the 3 block mark, panting hard, and running fast away from the disaster area.  Now, he was no hasty planner, carefully preparing for his journey, covering every detail, so as not to return again, embarrassed in defeat. 

Yeah, I was kind of wondering why Doug had that big, old suitcase stashed under his bed for so long - you remember those sixties suitcases, right? …all hardboard paneling and big metal latches, about as thick as a double mattress, trunk size, with a hideous yellow, laminated exterior.  He had obviously been planning for months.  All of his important shit was in there:  baseball cards, comic books, his dead turtle, a slinky, plenty of spare change, and exactly two pair of white scivies. 

He even managed to raid the refrigerator and pantry before he fled, carrying about 20 pounds worth of canned goods and a whole fucking fryer chicken.  The suitcase was strapped down to his skateboard, for ease of mobility, and lashed to his bike’s rear bumper with 3 or 4 of my dad’s colorful ties.  The bastard was on his way.  In hindsite, I could just imagine him whistling as he pedaled away, thinking he had completely blown this popsicle stand.  

Oh well.  I think it was on the corner of Cathedral and Evergreen - Dude failed to look both ways before crossing the intersection, and that police cruiser rolled right into him and his trailing cargo.  That cop must have been completely astounded, startled at the sight of this hobo urchin and simultaneously dumfounded by his chance discovery of one of 3 missing brothers, this one now nearly embedded in his sedan’s front grill, splintered remnants of that paneled suitcase flying as a lone chicken carcass rolled down the street.   

Of course, Rick and I missed all of that.  But we were happy just to see Doug in one piece, riding like a prince in the back seat of that cruiser.  He was riding high, with the sure look of jaded victory, the fleeing felon who had made it just past the perimeter, Cool-Hand Luke after downing 50 hard-boiled eggs, Papillon after he glided birdlike over the cliff.  His moment of glory was just that, though, as he was thrust back into the reality of his existence, here among these alien creatures. 

It was a quiet, somber evening at the LaFave stead, everyone apparently taking time to reflect on the day’s events, each from a different perspective.  It was one of those rare moments when my dad just sort of let it all go, like opening the windows to a cool Summer breeze as the days essence seeps out.  I don’t even think he was drinking.  Sure, he burned the bow and remaining arrows, while we silently watched from the big bay window, all truly relieved by this inanimate sacrifice. 

And there was no lingering civil action - hell, the city was still on fire - this was just another day in the neighborhood.  Yeah, we all survived.  Except maybe Mrs. Johannsen - she was never quite the same after that.  I think she probably thought twice about having kids.  Or maybe just about having kids like US next door.  Who knows, they moved later that year after their garage burned down.  I think it was an electrical problem.  I can honestly say that I had nothing to do with that one, but you couldn’t tell the neighbors of that! 

The Fire Department spent hours trying to douse that inferno.  Of course, my old man was like a crazed Gypsy that night, relinquishing any sanity as he grabbed a bag of marshmallows and some shish kebab skewers, yelling, “Let’s go kids!”  It was a late November night, full of stars and entirely clear except for the rising embers and ash, as we huddled out back on our side of the fence, my dad reaching over every couples of minutes to torch another treat, exclaiming, “I haven’t had this much fun since the pigs ate my sister!”

Yeah, so, there are some pigs in here somewhere.  The pigs don’t really surface until we hit the farm, circa 1974.  And my sister is all over the place, really.  I mean, it might sound like it was just me and my brothers.  But Shelly was always right there in the mix, with her own damn bedroom, as always. 

And all those dolls, some of which were brutally mutilated or otherwise disembodied by random acts of violence by some rogue G.I. Joe (Nope, my dad never went for it, either.)  Yep, Chele had all kinds of girly stuff.  Shit, she was a girl, why not? 

Man, she must have hated us boys getting into her things.  Such little tormentors.  And messing with her girlfriends, a practice I didn’t really start to appreciate until high school (but I sure was grateful, later, for all the slumber parties and general popularity my sister had).

But that damn bedroom thing still pissed me off.  In fact, I didn’t get my own room until I was about 14 - and that was short-lived, since I lit out on my own with the Bicentennial Wagon Train at 15 (That’s really another story).  At least I had my own bed, even if I was still sharing a bedroom with two little brothers, Doug and Rick.  Deviants.  Fuckwads. 

With my sister, I knew the boundaries - any sort of physical affliction meant the strap.  It was a pretty basic rule of thumb.  I got that, and I could take the punishment, but waiting hours for my old man to get home was just too much.  With the boys, though, it was almost anything goes.  Doug and Rick were only a year apart, both a couple years behind me.  So I was in charge. 

Why they always followed, I’ll never know.  I remember the Summer my dad came home with the archery set.  I was eyeing that baby with lustful glee.  This was like a whole new dimension in the development of an adolescent boy, better than Twilight Zone meets Star Trek in terms of envisioned capability and power!  

We were still living over on Cathedral then, by the Freeway.  We had pretty much mined the junk lot on the corner for all it was worth.  We were looking for new outlets for our deviant energy.  Of course, we had an above ground pool - a cool neighborhood attraction at the time - and that was good for a few more escapades.  Ahh, but when the bow and arrow set arrived, the pool was second fiddle for a while. 

My dad set up a target on this big oak tree in the back yard, and then he painstakingly showed us all how to draw the arrow, aim and shoot, over and over again.  We took multiple turns and got the hang of it.  I think my dad was so focused on teaching us something, that he totally lost sight of the fact that we were sure to quickly tire of the ringed target.

Monday was right around the corner and the old man was soon back at work.  By then, I had my brothers convinced that they wanted to be the cowboys - we had the hats and cap guns and all that giddup.  I even told them they could use their bikes as horses to chase the bad guys, the indians. 

But there was only one bad guy, one indian.  See, I just wanted to control the bow and arrows.  So, we worked out the guidelines.  They would give me a count to 20, and I’d hide.  Then, Doug & Rick would come searching for me, on their bikes, with their little pelletless pistols, sure they would win, simply because they outnumbered me. 

It was a simple plan, really.  And exactly why I liked being the indian.  I was going to scare the shit out of them.  And I did.  I came rushing out from behind a bush - oh yeah, I had feathers on and all that - and I started firing arrows.  These were real arrows, made of wood. 

I was pretty sure I could keep from actually hitting one of my brothers with an arrow, but I wanted to really get their attention with my Cochise-like prowess and adept firing skills.  I wasn’t really looking out beyond the “firing area” when I launched a couple of arrows over their shoulders. 

Now, these wooden arrows weren’t going to pierce a metal car door or anything, but man, they sure made a wicked, loud sound when they hit the next door neighbor’s car, and left a helluva mark.  Geez, Mr. Essie, was out the door after us pretty fast, and we scattered out of there like birdshot. 

In this sort of setting, it didn’t matter who or what had caused the mishap.  The aggrieved party - in this case, Mr. Essie - was going to get his hands on one of us, just to have some sort of article of evidence to present to those responsible, essentially our parents.  Doug was the slowest and, as usual, was already muttering a plausible excuse when he got nabbed. 

Jesus, just then my old man pulled up as this whole fiasco was transpiring.  No wonder he drank like he did.  Rick and I were quickly flushed out of hiding, and my dad let Mr. Essie know in no uncertain terms that we would be adequately punished.  It was painful just hearing the way he said that, especially since I had caused the damage. 

Doug & Rick knew they were getting it too, though.  I figured if I took it first, the old man might tire on me and spare these two innocent knuckleheads.  My efforts were at least noble, if nothing else.  Man, was pops pissed.  He must have figured he could trust us with that damn archery set - what a blow.

I discovered many years later - at my father’s funeral, in fact - that he never did actually spank my brothers that day.  He just took them into the bathroom, made a bunch of racket, and they pretended to take it hard, tears and all.   I got my ass kicked; I guess that’s why they never said anything. 

Anyway, there wasn’t even a discussion about whether or not our days with the archery set were over - it just disappeared.  But you know how it is when you’re at work all day; your kids just have endless time to totally fuck things up, right?! 

It took us a week or two before we found the hidden archery set.  We thought we were on top of our game, too - we had it all figured out.  If we didn’t shoot the arrows AT anything, we couldn’t really cause any trouble.  So we made up a new game.  It involved garbage can lids.

It was sort of like musical chairs, only instead of chairs we used the metal lids.  After a count of 5, everyone tried to grab one from the pile, then ran to their pre-designated spot.  Just like the chairs, we were one short, so somebody had to run uncovered.  Can you see where this is going? 

Since I was the most experienced with the bow, I would be the one to fire the arrows up into the air.  Then I would step under the dock after firing the piercing air dart.  It all made complete sense at the time.  When you’re 8 or 9 or 11, these sorts of arrangments are very easy to justify.  In fact, you really don’t justify them at all.  You just do it. 

I could philosophize all day about how this seemed perfectly normal at the time, but you’ll see in a little while why that would be a moot point. 

The first couple of shots should have been cause enough for concern.  They quickly disappeared; i.e., they didn’t quite come straight back down into the yard like we figured.  Do you have any idea what it’s like to cower for 5 or 6 minutes waiting for an arrow to fall from the sky, only to realize that, wherever it went, it must have come down somewhere by now?

This fact didn’t really slow us down much until we started to run low on arrows.  We found one stuck in the middle of the pool.  Fortunately, we got it out before my dad got home, but (nonetheless) quite a bit of water had leaked out by then.  That wasn’t the worst of it, though.

We had just about exhausted our efforts searching for that last arrow when my brother, Rick (aka Brillo, Spaz), happened to peer through the wood fence into the Johannsen’s yard.  There was Mrs. J. hanging clothes on the line.  There was Mrs. J’s baby lying on a blanket in the yard.  And there was our arrow, in the corner of the blanket. 

We tried like hell to keep her occupied while Johnnie Mittendorf retrieved the arrow behind her back, but the little bastard had soggy shoes on and totally failed to develop any sort of stealth maneuverability.  When Mrs. J. saw the arrow, she let out a blood-curdling scream like you wouldn’t believe. 

By the time my dad got home, we were all long gone and the police had been by the house two or three times.  My mother was frantic.  Man, were we fucked.  Just absolutely screwed.  There was no way around it.   And that’s where’ll finish off tonight, kids.  Any questions? 

Oh, there’s more.  Stay tuned for the next exciting episode, including the ever-popular vignette: ”Doug gets hit by a squad car!”          

Man, can I drag a story out, or what?  I’m not even close to the end of this bitch.  But I think there’s some good stuff coming up.  Last I remember, we were stuck back in the late sixties or early seventies…. like Mr. Peabody’s “way back” machine. 

Shit, it was easy back then, wasn’t it?  Everything seemed so cool - the clothes, the music, the cars, all the weird science stuff.  I loved science.  My friends didn’t know that, but I did.  It was truly the age of discovery, and this was way before LSD and other mind-altering substances. 

There were so many electronic gadgets emerging then, everything made in Japan or Taiwan.  That television thing really seemed to be the start of it all, but that was just my kid perspective.  I know the radio was around way before then; I’ve studied my Bernoulli, Tesla, Marconi, all those scientist dudes. 

Hell, my favorite thing back then was a transistor radio.  And it pretty much stayed that way until I got a record player.  Then a car.  Then a girlfriend…. Again, I’m getting ahead of myself.  But the TV swept in like a tidal wave and seemed to go hand-in-hand with all the other decadent shit that was going on.  In fact, tie-dyed clothes seemed to emerge simultaneously with color televisions. 

I think the first time I really even acknowledged the television as anything other than a piece of furniture was the day I burst into the front door, and my Mom was just standing there in front of the TV, balling her eyes out.  Martin Luther King, junior, had been assasinated.  I didn’t quite get it then, but I knew it was way bigger than anything I wanted to deal with  - I hugged my Mom and quickly ran back outside. 

Man, I hated to see my mother cry.  It usually meant something worse was coming next.  And it usually involved my father.  Sometimes even a moving truck.  But this was different.  That much I knew.  Two months later, the living room scenario was similar, only this time it was Robert F. Kennedy who had been assassinated.  For me, it was the same surreal ritual - quick hug for reassurance (hers and mine), and back out the door in a flash. 

For a while after that, we (kids) all pretty much steered clear of the living room and, by extension, my mother - you never really knew what was going to be on the tube.  And my mom seemed to be glued to that box, while she ironed or folded laundry or whatever, and smoked cigarettes.  As the oldest, I pretty much led the charge.  Besides, a back door entry led right to the refrigerator, which was the only good (or seemingly necessary) reason to come inside. 

Detroit was on fire back then, literally.  We were living over on Cathedral Street - a two-story house(!) - next to the Southfield Freeway; that’s the catwalk joint across from Marvin Gardens.  Everett Elementary, my school, was a 3 block walk.  Right next to it was Cody High School, where the students used have these “sit-ins”, skipping class and hanging out on the lawn, smoking pot, maybe playing guitar.

That scene got old real quick.  We were more interested in the kind of shit an 8 or 10 year old boy would naturally be attracted to - pyrotechnics!  My brothers and I used to head up toward Joy Road, a few blocks South, where buildings were on fire and people were all happy to keep them that way. 

We had our little walkie-talkies and pretended like we were on some sort of a G.I. Joe mission (this was way before Rambo) as we approached the “danger area”.  When we got within eyesight of the main drag, we would climb down into the sewer and cover the last block underground, coming up in an alley near a dumpster where we’d strategically planted some boxes and pallets, formed into a bit of a hideout. 

       

After that, television took on a new meaning.  You could watch a baseball game on TV, sometimes affording a little quality bonding time with the old man.  (Though I think I still preferred listening to the game on my portable transistor radio, tucked in my back pocket, while I actually played ball, outside.)  Man, it sure seemed like a small world back then.  Even with the riots going on downtown.   

And then all of that Vietnam stuff starting coming on the TV, which both mesmerized and scared people.  We don’t show caskets with American soldiers coming off the airplanes anymore.   But I do remember walking past that TV once or twice and just stopping to watch what was going on.   But then, two minutes later, I’d be hightailing it back outside.

Remember, Westerns were big back then - John Wayne, Clint Eastwood - it was all about cowboys and indians, and that meant being outside!  The pigs hadn’t even come close to my sister yet.  And I still didn’t have my own bedroom.  But, by then, my parents had another kid.  Another boy.  Fuck.

Alright, fuckers, bored with Jane Kenyon, you few who are actually reading?  So be it.  However, it’s still the weekend, so we’re on hiatus from the pigs and my sister.  Try this one on for size:  The Shocker!

One of two things probably happens when you read the above headline:  (1) You raise your eyebrows in an expression of amazement, thinking to yourself, “Wow, I can’t believe he’s going to discuss this,” or (2) You have no earthly idea what “The Shocker” is (like me, initially) and will be surprised and amazed at what follows. 

Perhaps you’re in the know, but had to discover it the hard way (like I did) via Google, Wikipedia or (worse yet) your kids.  Either way, I think you want to read on.  Remember the classic Seinfeld episode, “The Contest”?  It’s like that, sort of….. How shall I put this delicately?  

Well, I’ll start here:  I’ve discovered that most high school and college age kids know about The Shocker, and they apparently use it quite frequently, kind of like a new millenium “right on” gesture or, perhaps, a peace symbol.  In fact, all sources confirm that’s it’s been around for at least 10, maybe even 15, years. 

Whether it’s the 2 finger or the (more appropriate) 3 finger version, the original connotation is the same.  Here’s where you should stop reading if you’re one of my daughters.  (That’s right, Jessie, stop right there and get the PG version from your Mom.)    

The Shocker is a hand gesture with a graphic sexual connotation.  The ring finger and thumb are curled or bent down while the other fingers are extended.  The index and middle fingers are kept together (touching) and the back of the hand faces outwards (away from the gesturer). 

I’m hoping I don’t have to go into more detail regarding how this might be used to “penetrate” or ”pleasure” a woman, but you can imagine where it gets it’s name.  There are also some mnemonic rhymes used to describe the same process or meaning, but I won’t exploit them here - they’re readily available on the Net.

There’s even a big foam version of the logo for sale on line (CollegeHumor).  And it’s been profiled in Saturday Night Live!  Wichita State University students use The Shocker at basketball games in a manner similar to George Bush’s usage, as well.

The Shocker has gotten so popular with college cheerleaders that they’re giving the sign to cameras in the midst of televised games.  Man, REALLY old people must be completely clueless.  Do they turn to their friend in the senior citizens home and say something like, “I think that young girl’s team is #3?!” 

If you asked a random young person to throw the hand gesture today that has the most prominance, The Shocker probably wins hands down (no pun intended).  Let’s face it, our kids love to know (insert “display”, “wear”, etc.) and have things that we (their parents) don’t get.  Weren’t we the same way?  I mean, bell bottoms were cool, but why are these punks wearing their pants hanging down off of their asses??

Amazing, the things you can learn in a place like Iraq.  This whole recent “enlightenment” of mine resulted from a game our young folks developed and were unwittingly playing in the JOC (pronounced “The Jock”, and meaning the Joint Operations Center). 

See, we have several daily update briefs that happen at certain times and involve all of our key players (read senior officers).  Well, you know, it’s human nature to get bored with routines.  So these folks (the young briefers) came up with this game.  They scored a point if they could somehow insert The Shocker into their portion of the brief, with one caveat: They had to verbally utter the term, such as, “Now here’s a real shocker,” while displaying the symbol above shoulder level.  They were all in on it - Intel, Weather, Maintenance, Special Tactics, SERE, pilots, etc.  It was only us old guys who were clueless (and, thank God for that - it started before I got here).

Shit, they even had the above photo displayed on the white board with a point tally.  Well, when my boss, a full bird colonel, finally caught on to this strange connection, he decided we should figure out what the hell they were up to.  So we had a BOGSAT (Bunch of Old Guys Sitting Around Talking).  Through careful research, we discovered both the explicit nature of the symbol and how widespread it had become. 

But, not wanting reveal our ignorance or tip the team’s hat, the colonel devised a counter-attack plan, maneuvering himself to get the last laugh.  The JOC chief (i.e., supervisor), a well-muscled and verile young major whose handle is “Do-It” (AKA MAJ Dewitt), seemed to be the main proponent of this game and had certainly accumulated the most points. 

During the next CUB (Command Update Brief), the colonel simply said, as he tugged a little tuft of hair atop his nearly bald head, ”OK, the rules have now changed; The Shocker is out, the Merkin is in - that’s one point for me.”  Everyone looked around with a blank stare.  Only the colonel and a couple of us old guys were in the know.  

Yeah, I could do a whole piece on the merkin - just google it!  It’s been around since at least the early 1700’s!